


shoulder to shoulder

by Bloodsbane



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Banter, Boss/Employee Relationship, Humor, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PeterMartinWeek 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27491938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/pseuds/Bloodsbane
Summary: When Martin Blackwood is offered a high-paying PA position by Peter Lukas himself, he accepts on the spot. How could he not? But the longer he works with Peter, the more he begins to notice. Eventually, the two become far more interested in each other than anything else.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	1. shaky hands and coffee cups

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited for PeterMartin week!! I really do love this ship, and I'm hoping a lot of cool work comes out of this event~ 
> 
> I'm going to be writing for a couple (not all) of the prompts, with this one being pretty loosely related to the day one prompt _concealment._ Currently I plan on at least 5 chapters, but there may be a 6th, I haven't decided yet. I'm gonna try my best to keep up with publishing the chapters all week, though I'm writing them as I go. 
> 
> This first chapter jumps a bit between perspectives, but the rest of the fic should be sticking mainly to Martin's POV.

Martin has always been quick to learn. In the first three months of his new job as a personal assistant, he learns this: 

Peter Lukas is a solitary man. He doesn’t like small talk; he doesn’t seem to like talking in general. Or, rather, he’s very good at talking _at_ people, but not being spoken to. When he absolutely has to speak with someone face-to-face, he’ll dive right into a conversation without so much as a hello, and end it just as abruptly. 

When Peter hired Martin, he’d explained that he preferred to communicate via email, so that’s what Martin has been doing. He’ll send Peter emails about his schedule, updates, reminders — everything. The only time Martin really sees Peter is somewhere during the middle of the day, when Peter pokes his head into Martin’s tiny office. Sometimes it’s to ask a question. Sometimes it’s to tell Martin to cancel a meeting or pencil someone in. Sometimes it’s to have Martin set a reminder. Every time, Martin wonders why Peter doesn’t just include it in an email. 

One of the other things Martin notices is that Peter’s hands shake. Not all the time, but if Martin catches sight of Peter earlier in the day — sometimes they cross paths in the hallways — Martin sees the unsteady coffee cup. And then the other hand slips away, into the pocket of his trousers, or his coat, as he gives Martin a bland smile. 

That’s another thing: Peter drinks coffee. He has Martin pick it up on his way to work, and every morning Martin rides the elevator up to deliver it to Peter’s office. He places it on the corner of his desk atop a plain grey coaster. A few hours later, while Peter is in one of his meetings, Martin retrieves the cup. It is always, without fail, more than half full. Even if the money isn't Martin's, since Peter gave him a card to use for expenses like this, it's still a waste.

This bothers Martin more than it probably should. He already isn’t fond of coffee, so he really can’t understand why Peter insists on being brought a cup every morning if he doesn’t even drink most of it. 

So one afternoon, when Peter’s visiting Martin’s office to inform him of a rescheduled meeting, Martin can’t help but ask, “Peter, why do you make me deliver you coffee every morning?”

“...I’m sorry?” Peter’s expression hasn’t changed much, but it’s been three months. Martin can tell by the man’s tone that he’s at least a little surprised. 

“You never finish the coffee I bring you,” Martin explains, feeling jittery with nerves and trying not to let it show. He really shouldn’t feel so worried over asking a simple question, but Peter is his boss — he’s the reason Martin even has this job — and by now he should know better than to even try. But still. He thinks about Peter’s hands, how they shake. “It just… I dunno, do you even like coffee?” 

Peter takes a half-step into the room. He scratches at his beard, not looking at Martin. Eventually he says, “Coffee is fine. Mostly I just like to have it. It’s nice to have something warm in the mornings, don’t you think?”

Then, before Martin can say much else, Peter shrugs and slips out the door. 

Every morning, Peter wakes up at five. He takes a shower. He gets dressed. Feeling queasy, he skips breakfast. 

He’s driven and dropped off at work around seven-thirty. He goes straight to his office, where a cup of coffee and a full inbox wait for him. Sometimes there’s paperwork, but usually it’s just the emails, which aren’t the worst way to start his workday, all things considered. 

For years, this routine has remained relatively unchanged. He used to get his own coffee, but then — as with most things in his life — he decided it would be easier to pay someone else to do it for him. Martin isn’t the first, but so far he is the best; unlike the others, he comes in early enough not to be seen, and he doesn’t linger to tell Peter things he doesn’t have to. 

This morning, like every other, is unassuming. Peter spends an extra few seconds staring up at the dark building before stepping inside. He avoids eye-contact with the receptionist on his way to the elevator. When he gets to his office, everything is where it should be, and he tries to let some tension ease from his shoulders. The office is big and mostly plain, but the wood of his desk is smooth, dark brown, and the window behind his chair lets in the morning light. Through thin blue curtains, it casts a muted, tranquil tone all throughout the room, one that eases Peter’s mind. 

Peter sits at his desk, taking the styrofoam cup into one hand. He appreciates the heat of the coffee warming his fingertips as he turns on his computer. Once its booted up and he’s about to open his email, he takes an absent-minded sip of his coffee.

...Oh, huh. That isn’t coffee. 

Peter licks his lips, staring down at the cup, only now noticing it’s completely blank. Usually Martin picks up his coffee from somewhere — Peter’s not sure where, exactly — and they put their logo on the cup. He takes another sip and realizes it’s tea. That’s… odd. 

Peter stares at his inbox, but doesn’t open any of the dozen or so new messages. For a moment he simply sits there, taking in the dusty-dark corners of his office, tinged with blue. He looks down at the cup, settled on his knee, still held by one hand, now decently warm. 

Another sip. It tastes like… vanilla. Vanilla and something else, something like… almond, maybe? What a strange choice. 

It’s nice, though, Peter realizes belatedly; he likes it. So Peter continues sipping as he reads through the first email. 

A few hours later, Martin steps into the office. It’s brighter now, and the room’s true colors have begun to saturate the space: muted browns, costal greys. Here and there are scraps of cream or dull white, accenting just enough to keep it from looking dour. Martin likes the palette quite a lot, actually, and can never help himself when he takes an extra moment to take it all in. It’s a nice room, angular and clean, smelling faintly of… he’s not sure. Something light, like a scent on the breeze. He’s looked around before, but has never found a candle or incense burning. Maybe Peter’s cologne? Martin has never gotten close enough to know if Peter even uses the stuff. 

Pulling himself from his thoughts, Martin tries to focus. He goes over to Peter’s desk and retrieves the styrofoam cup. It’s on the grey coaster, almost as if it never left. Martin half-worries that’s the case before he picks it up and overestimates how full it is. He fumbles, nearly dropping the cup before he’s able to catch himself. 

A surge of satisfaction makes Martin grin. He can’t help popping open the lid to check the inside of the cup, spurred by some vague disbelief. But it’s well and truly empty. 

From then on, Peter’s routine is a bit different. 


	2. stealing warmth from far away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up, some of these chapters will be skipping ahead in the timeline, and it might not always be explicitly stated (though it is here.) I'm imagining these events take place over the course of a couple years. 
> 
> Also minor cw for Martin dealing with his mom, though she stays off-screen. It's implied they had a fight and he's stuck at her place (his childhood home) for a long weekend.
> 
> This chapter is for the prompt _home._

Martin’s just put the kettle on when his phone rings. The slow, soothing cello music floats towards him from his discarded hoodie, letting him know exactly who’s calling. **  
**

The phone calls — they’re a more recent development. Nearly a year has passed since Martin started working for Peter Lukas, and he’s had the man’s personal cellphone number for the entirety of that time. But Peter was not one to call or text if he could help it, so clearly preferring to keep things detached, impersonal. Martin was fully aware of the man’s schedule, his appointments, the people he saw on a regular basis; Peter never took a lunch with friends or enjoyed meetings over dinner, and he never took time off to visit family. He didn’t even talk to the people who worked for him, to the point where Martin was pretty sure he didn’t know the name of a single staff member in their building. 

Excluding Martin, of course. 

And that was what was so interesting about the calls. Peter didn’t like texting, or at the very least he was extremely bad at it. For no reason Martin could understand, any attempt at texting would result in a day-late response, if he got one at all. It got to the point where Martin, frustrated, simply gave up and pressed the call button. 

He would’ve expected Peter not to answer. But he did, and Martin had been able to ask his question, receiving a prompt answer. He’d hung up feeling surprised, but satisfied. 

The incident had opened a new avenue of communication. Since then, Martin would often call Peter to ask questions too time-sensitive or brief to justify writing an email over. He half-expected Peter to eventually complain or not-so-subtly imply that Martin should cut it out, but that never happened. In fact, Peter started being the one to call Martin. Mostly with questions or requests for updates, things Martin could relay in a sentence or two. Peter would hum in acknowledgement before abruptly ending the call. It was a little odd, but it worked, and Martin was always acclimating to the eccentricities of his boss.

So the fact that Peter Lukas is calling Martin’s cellphone isn’t really surprising. No, it’s more to do with the timing than anything else. With a roll of the eyes and a sigh, Martin fishes out his phone and answers. “Hullo, Martin Blackwood speaking.” 

“Martin!”

“Peter.” The window looking out to the front porch is open, which means if Martin leaves, he’ll still hear when the water’s done boiling. He casts a furtive glance back towards his mother’s room before stepping out through the front door. “Did you need something?”

“Where’ve you run off to?” Peter asks, tone light. Martin can imagine him easily: it’s only eight-thirty, which means he’s probably still going through his email. In his mind’s eye Martin can see Peter at his desk, one hand on the mouse, clicking this and that, while the other holds his phone to his ear. 

“Peter, you knew I was taking the next three days off,” Martin replies. He takes a seat on the rocking chair, which creaks mockingly under his weight. He dares to lean back, just a bit, to take some pressure off his feet. 

“I just find it hard to accept you’d abandon me like this,” Peter laments. “Do you expect me to schedule my own meetings? If I recall, that’s what I hired you for.” 

Martin pulls the phone away so he can hide the way he snorts. Then, trying to sound professional, he says, “If you really need help, Peter, I do have my laptop with me.” 

“No, no, no, I’ll do it myself. I’m sure I’ll manage somehow.” 

“It hasn’t even been a full year yet that I’ve worked for you, I’m sure you can remember how to read and reply directly to emails.”

“Well, maybe. Oh, but how am I supposed to get my morning drink without your help?”

“You’re a grown man, you can walk down the block to pick up your own cup of coffee.” 

“But I don’t drink coffee anymore, do I? No, some fiend has gotten me used to fancy tea.”

With a notable amount of effort, Martin resists the urge to giggle. “My tea isn’t _fancy_ , Peter.” 

“Ah!” Peter sounded satisfied, for some reason. “So you do make it yourself?” 

“I-” Martin suddenly feels like he’s been caught in a lie, though that’s certainly not the case. “I mean… yes? I, I make myself tea every morning, and there’s not any reason to be spending money when I can do it… And it saves time on my commute, I don’t have to detour for twenty minutes just to get your drink.”

“There you go, then,” Peter said gravely. “Homemade tea. How can I tackle my long work days without it? I’ve gotten spoiled!”

“I think you were born spoiled,” Martin says, before he can think better of it. For half a second his heart stops, but then he hears Peter’s laughter through the receiver. It’s muffled by the distance between them, but Martin still hears it, a rough, faltering chuckle. He’s never heard Peter laugh before.

For a moment, there’s silence. Before, Martin might have gotten nervous over it, but he’s used to them by now. In a few of his longer conversations with Peter, there would come silences like this. Usually it’s Peter, gazing off at something Martin can’t see, rolling some idea or concept in his head. Martin just waits patiently, sure that his boss will arrive at the next point of the conversation eventually. And Martin doesn’t mind waiting, really. 

It’s in this pause that Martin hears the kettle whistle, so he quickly makes his way back inside to finish the tea. He wrinkles his nose at the smell of it; oolong, again. The reminder his his earlier conversation with his mother makes him glance at her bedroom door. It’s still closed. Very faintly, he hears something playing on the telly, and wonders if she’ll complain about her show getting interrupted when he delivers the tea.

“You’ll be back Tuesday?” 

Martin jumps a little — he’d forgotten about the phone tucked into his shoulder, had forgotten he was still talking to Peter. “I- um, yes, I’ll be back Tuesday.” 

“Morning?”

“Afternoon. Sorry; I’ll be back in time for that big meeting you have with Richardson.” 

“Ah.” 

Feeling suddenly bold, Martin says, a hint of laughter in his voice, “Poor thing, you must be missing me terribly.” 

“...I miss your tea, certainly.”

Martin, who had been carefully arranging a plate of snacks, pauses. Then his mother’s voice cuts through the quiet, demanding to know what’s taking him so long, and Martin nearly drops his phone. “S-sorry, sorry,” he sputters, “I’ve got to go now, Peter. I’ll- I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Until then.” 

The call ends. Martin takes a moment — just a couple of seconds, he’s allowed that much, right? — to ease the racing of his heart. Then, bracing himself, he grabs the tray of tea and takes it to his mother. 


	3. falling free around us, settling between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter takes place not too long after the previous one, and the prompt was _weather_

Of course it had to rain today. 

Martin can only curse and pick up his pace, thoughtlessly reaching behind him, searching for the sleeve of Peter’s coat. The fine material would not hold up to a deluge of grimey water, and Martin is not keen on leaving puddles in the office carpet, or being sent off to get their clothes dry-cleaned. Once he has a firm grasp on Peter’s arm, he swiftly directs them beneath the overhang of some old building, practically hidden in the shadows of two larger buildings on either side. 

“Of course,” Martin grumbles, trying to hide the fact he’s catching his breath. Sitting all day in his office hasn’t been doing him many favors. “Of course it rained.” 

Beside him, Peter stands, silent and smiling. He gazes out at the world around them, looking mostly unbothered by the abrupt shift in weather and the fact he was now literally backed against a wall with his assistant. 

“At least it waited until after the event,” Martin sighs. “If we’d gotten rained on during that stupid speech I had to write for you, I might have screamed.”

“That would have been a tragedy,” Peter agrees. He sounds almost jarringly chipper against the dreary backdrop of grey skies and wet concrete. It was quite a change from only twenty minutes ago, right before they’d left the park. He’d been all shaky-hands and dull smiles, then. “We’re very lucky it had the courtesy of waiting until after you’d insisted we walk back to the office.”

“Don’t start with me,” Martin can’t help but snap, feeling defensive. “You practically live in that blasted car, getting chauffeured around. It’s either that or your office. Can’t help but wonder if you’ve ever spent a full day out in the sun before.” 

Peter only holds up his hands placatingly. Then it’s quiet again, at least for a bit. Martin glares at passing cars, slick with rain, reflecting all the lights and colors back at the world as they pass by. Some people are still speed-walking along, though many have produced umbrellas. Martin whips out his phone, grinding his teeth. None of his alerts told him there would be rain today. 

“You’ve been snappy lately,” Peter comments blandly. Martin flicks his eyes at his boss. “Did something happen?” 

For half a second, Martin really wants to tell Peter that it is, frankly, none of his business if anything happened. Then the peculiar nature of the moment fully settles. Martin can’t recall a time Peter has ever asked Martin a question this personal — and it _is_ personal — apropos of nothing. 

For the other half of the second, Martin actually considered telling him. What if he told Peter about his visit home? Should he tell Peter what his mum had told him — that she was selling the house, moving to a nursing home? That she’d made this choice without mentioning it to Martin at all, not until after everything was arranged, and it was too late to argue about? Though that hadn’t stopped Martin from trying. 

A home in Devon. Residence that he would have to pay for. Sure, there would be a bit of money from the house, but it would go quick. They hadn’t lived in a nice place, small and dingy, in a neighborhood most people tried not to linger in while they passed through. 

But- no. No, Martin didn’t want to tell Peter about any of that, not least of all because he knew Peter wouldn’t actually want to hear it. This man — his _boss_ , Peter was his boss — was not the sort of person who needed to suffer through the details of Martin’s family drama. 

And yet. Martin leans back against the cold, dirty brick of the building. He folds his arms, observing the way his suit jacket creases. It was something new, something Peter had insisted on buying for him; part of the job, he’d said, a business expense more than anything else. If Martin was to mingle with partners, sponsors, donors, clients, he would have to look the part. He certainly had today, all dressed up in dark greys and oceanic blues, in his dappled wool vest with his fancy, shining shoes. Martin might have complained it simply didn’t suit him, not at all, if not for the fact that Peter made sure it was tailored. 

Another moment passes, and then Martin asks, “Peter?”

“Hm?” 

“Have you ever missed something that maybe wasn’t so great in the first place? Maybe you didn’t even like it all that much. Maybe… maybe you never liked it at all. It’s just that… well, it was familiar. But now that you know it’s gone, and you can never see it again… Well, it’s sort of sad?”

Martin had paused to look at the house before he left, one last time. In that moment, everything he’d hated about it — the bedraggled porch, the pitiful, dead lawn, the smallness and the grey of it all — hadn’t seemed so bad. Some part of him had wanted to gather it up into his arms and hold it, tightly enough so that he could hide it inside, something he could feel in his chest. Or maybe that was the problem; those things were already there inside him, a tangible, decrepit weight that had always kept him anchored someplace cold and broken. 

Peter wastes time pulling out his pipe and lightning it. Martin wrinkles his nose, and he can see the corner of Peter’s mouth curl into a smirk. Peter blows smoke into the wind, and they both watch it get dashed by the downpour. 

“I get what you mean,” he says eventually, smoke slipping from his lips. 

Martin turns towards him, just a bit more. “You do?” 

“Oh, sure. But, in my opinion, I think it’s better that way.”

“Really?” 

Another pause for the pipe. Martin waits, a bit mesmerized by this moment they’ve stumbled into. When Peter speaks, his voice is soft, and rough from the softness. “Well… the feeling sort of hurts, doesn’t it? But that’s only because you're remembering the parts you were actually fond of. Really, that’s just a sort of fantasy. The reality of the thing was probably a lot worse. So maybe the feeling is sad, but it’s also reassuring, isn’t it? You feel safe knowing for sure you can never go back, and that pleasant, faded fabrication you’ve got in your head will never have to change. It’ll just keep getting worn more and more until you don’t miss it at all.”

Silence and smoke. The pitter-patter of rain, slowly easing. Martin can hear the way it pings off gutters and splatters in the grass near his feet, growing in dingy, dirty corners. It shines off his new shoes. There’s a patch of damp on Peter’s sleeve, the one Martin hadn’t grabbed earlier, but it’s small. 

Martin shuffles closer to Peter, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, the distance of a breath left between them. 

“Peter? Can I ask you something else?”

“Hmm.”

Martin gets a sense that Peter won’t be much for more along the lines of their current topic. Thankfully, Martin’s more interested in changing the subject, lightening the mood. Besides, there’s something that’s been nagging at him for ages, and what better time to ask than now? They’re trapped here for at least another ten minutes. “I was just wondering… Why did you hire me?” 

At this, Peter actually turns to look at him. His eyes, so pale, seem richer for the rain, in a way Martin can’t quite describe. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you just showed up at the institute one afternoon, walked over to me, and offered me a job,” Martin tells him, inflecting his tone with some humor. “So, what the hell?”

Peter chuckled with enough amusement to show a flash of teeth. He took the pipe from his lips and blew smoke from his nose, tilting his head just enough to keep it from floating near Martin. “Ah, that! To be perfectly honest, it was mostly a dig at Elias.”

“Mr. Bouchard?” 

“You remember we were married, right?” 

Martin’s lashes fluttered in surprise. “I thought that was just an office rumor!” 

“Oh, no, it was quite a reality. I remembered seeing you the few times I visited the institute; I was going there to discuss divorce proceedings with Elias. Between the two of us, Elias insisted he had the least free time, so I was forced to make the trips. 

“Anyway, on my last visit to get him to sign some of the forms, I noticed you again. And I thought it might be fun if I stole away one of Elias’ precious little employees — he’s quite protective of you lot, did you know? I’ve never understood why.” 

“That’s really the reason?” 

Peter gives him one of those flimsy smiles, and shrugs one shoulder. 

“Gee.” Martin sniffs and glances away, “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.” 

“Come now, Martin,” Peter says, and Martin can feel his boss leaning towards him, just the slightest inch closer. “I’ve treated you well, haven’t I? Though I’ll claim to be the one who truly lucked out on that little game of chance.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I was sure you would do fine as my P.A., but I could never have expected just how well things would work out. You were a perfect choice for the job.” 

“Come off it,” Martin says, making a show of sounding annoyed so it’s not obvious how flustered he is. “I can’t believe you hired a stranger to be your personal assistant just to get back at your husband.”

“Ex-husband,” Peter corrects, with an odd amount of feeling in his tone. But then he’s looking up and out into the world, and Martin feels whatever moment they’d been sharing, backs to the brick wall, has ended. “Look, it’s not so bad anymore. Let’s get back to the office, shall we?”

“Uh, right. Yeah, let’s go.” 

They walk the rest of the way in silence, but Martin has gotten quite used to silence like this.


End file.
